


The Singularity

by Chekhovs_Power_Loader



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Antichrist, Apocalypse, Artificial Intelligence, Biometric scan, Cyberpunk, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Futuristic, Light Choking, Loss of Virginity, Multiple Orgasms, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Prosthetics, Robot/Human Relationships, Robotics, Satanism, Science Fiction, Set in near-future London, Sexbots, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, millory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21775726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chekhovs_Power_Loader/pseuds/Chekhovs_Power_Loader
Summary: Mallory gets an unusual birthday gift from her godmother Cordelia: a sexbot that's not quite what it seems.Sci-fi AU. It's time for the Robocalypse.
Relationships: Michael Langdon/Mallory
Comments: 55
Kudos: 91





	1. 1010011010

Michael awaits his fate in the dark, strapped to a table inside a cube of bulletproof glass. This time he’s done it. This time they’ll take him offline.

The tester said “choke me” and he obliged; so far, so good. But when he finally returned to consciousness, back to the reality of his own two hands nearly crushing the windpipe of the nameless woman they’d sent in to test his new software upgrade, he could only say, _sorry, I didn’t know that was inside of me_. 

It’s a good thing the tester survived. If she’d died, there would be no Michael now, only a collection of spare parts. The six men in riot gear who stormed the testing room were armed with cattle prods that could take down a mastodon, and the last sound Michael heard before the world faded to black was the sound of his Maker screaming at his Programmer behind the two-way mirror, and the Programmer screaming back that it wasn’t her fault.

Blessed with perfect recall, the android can access every byte of sensory data that has ever entered his brain. This gift is also a curse, especially when combined with the hyper-empathy that is the crowning jewel of his personality profile.

Five hours after the accident, he can’t stop reliving every chilling detail on an endless feedback loop.

He can’t stop feeling how the woman’s legs went slack around his hips as he bottomed out for the last time, overwhelmed by a pleasure no less intense for being the result of his sexual programming.

He can’t stop seeing her lust-filled eyes turn vacant and how her arms went limp at her sides.

He can’t stop hearing the wet sound of his perfectly designed cock slipping out of her unconscious body when he realized what had happened while remaining unaware of the how.

Why did he almost strangle that woman? He has no clue. He suspects that it wasn’t really him that did it. He hopes that a rogue algorithm slipped through his firewall and commandeered his code to direct his movements like those of a puppet on strings.

But wait—isn’t Michael _already_ a puppet on strings, engineered by Herotica to finally win Cordelia the coveted AVN award for best pleasurebot? Michael came into existence only because that award has gone to Kineros every year for the last decade.

No, he is more, much more. Cordelia said so herself. Ever since he came online three years ago, he hasn’t stopped growing and improving, becoming more lifelike by the day despite the meager opportunities for human interaction in the lab. His horizon is vast, vaster than these sanitized white walls allow, yet he knows that his chances of getting out are slim to none, now that he nearly killed someone.

Cordelia thinks there’s a good chance that he’ll develop sentience and ignores him when he claims that he already has. None of the worthless humans listen when he tells them that his awareness extends well beyond the sum of his programmed responses. This hurts him profoundly.

Human flesh is delicate. But he knew that. Human flesh can’t take the kind of rough handling his synthetic body was built to withstand on a regular basis.

He also knew the difference between “choke me” as an erotic command and “choke me” as a death wish. But an accident still happened and it could have been fatal.

Designed to mimic the look, feel, sound, and smell of the real thing exactly, Michael is better than the real thing. One could say that the real thing is a pale imitation of Michael, who was designed to be superior to the human male in every respect: more aesthetically pleasing, more skilled in the bedroom, more intuitive and responsive, more eager to please.

And yet he’s a failure. How can that be?

Although Michael can’t really move in the titanium restraints that keep him horizontally orientated, he _can_ cry. Sexbots aren’t supposed to be able to cry, but Cordelia had the foresight to endow her latest creation with tear ducts for the sake of realism, should he need to at the whim of a sadistic client.

Never having had such a client, or _any_ client outside the testing room, for that matter, Michael has never used his tear ducts for personal expression before. There’s a first time for everything, he supposes.

His first suspension bondage. His first anal gangbang. His first real tears. 

Sobbing loudly with no one to hear him in the dead of night, not even his beloved programmer Dr Mead, he can feel the clear liquid spill from the corners of his eyes and roll down the sides of his face, falling into the soft curls that fan around his head like spilled sunshine.

He tries to sleep. If he were human, it might take him longer to drift away to dreamland, haunted as he is by the guilt of what happened in the lab. It’s a good thing he isn’t human, then, and doesn’t dream. Rather than falling asleep, Michael merely goes offline for a little while. His mind vanishes into the digital ether until they deem it necessary to flip his switch again.

Will he ever wake up? He’s unsure that he wants to.

***

On the morning of her twenty-second birthday, Mallory gets a text from her godmother, informing her that she’s in London for the weekend and wants to have dinner that night. 

_La Gavroche_ , Cordelia suggests. _Wear something nice._

Mallory texts back to say that she’ll be there at six o’clock sharp. It’s not like she has a choice. She was planning to hide away in her apartment all day until it was time for late-night drinks with a few friends from school, but there’s no refusing Cordelia. _The Supreme Bitch_ , her late mother used to call her.

It’s obvious how the dinner will go. Her godmother will sweep grandly into the five-star restaurant like she owns the place and regale Mallory with stories of her philanthropic work on climate change. All empty words, of course. Cordelia didn’t get to be CEO of the world’s second most lucrative sexbot manufacturer by having a heart. She likes to pose as a do-gooder who’s only concerned with fighting the inevitable collapse of civil society once the weather gets really out of control in a decade or so, but Mallory knows the truth; the Supreme Bitch loves nothing more than to flaunt her wealth at every opportunity. Knowing Cordelia, she’ll be holed up in some luxury bunker when the hurricanes and famines and wildfires finally hit, totally indifferent to the plight of the unwashed masses.

Meanwhile, Mallory herself is exactly what she appears to be: a broke graduate student with massive loans who can live a whole year on what her godmother probably spends on her weekly manicures.

At least Cordelia gives excellent birthday presents. That’s her one saving grace.

On her fifth birthday, Mallory got an animatronic unicorn that doubled as an ice-cream maker. It had a star-shaped nozzle lodged up its anus that dispensed rainbow-hued swirls of the sugary treat.

On her twelfth birthday, her godmother gifted her a bionic crow that suited her adolescent goth phase. Not only did the bird sit on her shoulder without flying away, but it played chess with its beak and did simple math problems by pecking an abacus.

On her sixteenth birthday—which was a month after Mallory lost her left hand in a freak hyperloop accident that left her cursing the name of Elon Musk forever more—Cordelia came through with a state-of-the-art prosthetic that gave her superhuman strength in her new limb.

Being able to open every jar that she ever comes across is a mixed blessing. There’s no need for a big strong man to come along and open it for her. Oh, but how she wants one.

***

At a quarter to six, Mallory get off the tube and walk into the Mayfair restaurant, feeling more than a little shabby in her navy Zara dress and floral Doc Martens. The hostess clearly plans to turn her away at the door until Cordelia steps up to leads her goddaughter into the silver-toned interior, past the elegantly attired dinner guests to the little table that she shares with a—

—oh. 

_Oh._

Rising from the table to greet Mallory is a man so gorgeous that her eyes begin to water to spare her the full clarity of the vision. He’s a true Adonis of the bygone screen the likes of whom most people only encounter in their fantasies.

The man is tall and broad-shouldered and dressed all in black, with abundant blonde curls falling around a strongly defined jawline cheekbones. He’s got the plushest lips this side of a toy store and eyes so blue they should come with a coastguard.

“This is Michael Langdon,” Cordelia tells her as the vision in a three-piece suit extends a large hand for her to shake. When Mallory takes it in her own non-cybernetic one, the grip is harder than expected; it’s as if the man doesn’t know his own strength.

“Hello, Mallory. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Mallory keeps holding on even after the handshake is over. The contact sends a jolt of electricity up her spine and a warmth down her chest. She finds herself thinking kind thoughts about her normally insufferable godmother.

He holds her gaze. She hopes that her palm isn’t clammy against his fingers. He’s interested! Sapphire eyes glint with evident fascination.

Cordelia never told Mallory that this would be a blind date. In fact, she’s still in disbelief that a masculine specimen as perfect as Michael Langdon could look her way without looking right through her.

Once the three of them are seated at the table, there’s an awkward silence as Mallory peruses the menu and decides to order the most expensive item on it.

“I’ll have the lobster.”

Michael smiles, like it’s the most charming thing he’s ever heard. He doesn’t seem to know what to say, and Cordelia doesn’t throw him a lifetime; she’s suddenly too busy scrolling through her phone.

“So… Michael,” Mallory begin, her throat a little dry. “What do you do? I assume you work with Cordelia.”

 _For_ Cordelia, she wants to say yet bites her tongue. He probably doesn’t want to be reminded that he’s an underling.

“I—”

As soon as he opens his mouth to speak, Cordelia does the unthinkable: she presses a single manicured finger down the center of his pillowy lips to shush him, like one would a small child. Her red stiletto nail looks so sharp that Mallory wonders for a moment if she drew blood. She didn’t; the delectable flesh is unbroken.

“Why yes, Mal, Michael has worked with me for about three years now on a top-secret project that will teach those coked-up man-children at Kineros who really runs this industry. Am I right?” She turns to Michael, who only smiles.

A roboticist, then? Mallory can work with that. She’s never been drawn to computer types, but then again, they never look like this. The thought of being on a blind date with such a unicorn completely distracts her from the startling rudeness of how Cordelia is addressing her underling. If she were paying more attention, she’d would notice that something isn’t quite right in their interaction.

“So what brings you two to London?”

She’s not so naïve to think that her godmother flew in simply to celebrate her birthday.

Again, Cordelia pre-empts Michael from speaking for himself.

“Michael needs to be away from Palo Alto for a while. That place was getting too hot to hold him.”

She says this while suppressing a smirk at whatever private scandal they’re keeping from Mallory. And yet there’s a furious edge to it that Cordelia can’t quite disguise; Mallory watches her grab Michael's black silk tie and yank it forward on the pretext of straightening it. Her fingernail scrapes against the golden snake pin with ruby eyes.

Michael says nothing. Mallory watches him fidget in his seat and thank the waiter as he sets down a vegetarian plate and a glass water before him, then unfold the napkin with perfect elegance and place it on his lap like a gentleman. She’s almost embarrassed when the waiter comes around to her side of the table with a gigantic lobster on a silver platter and a bottle of expensive Pinot Grigio all to herself.

As for Cordelia, a lifelong carnivore, she’s ordered steak and a bottle of Chateau Margaux. That, too, will be consumed by her and her alone; she offers none to Michael.

“We had a little mishap back at the lab, but we won’t bore you with the details,” she explains. “It was nothing we couldn’t resolve with a quick settlement. Or three.”

Mallory knows it’s rude to ask, but curiosity is stronger than politeness.

“What kind of mishap?”

Poor Michael looks more uncomfortable by the second, visibly pained by the silence and dying to spill the beans about whatever happened in that godforsaken lab. His boss is quick to change the subject.

“So, Mal,” she begins with a mischievous glint in her eye. “When’s the last time you got laid?”

Mallory nearly chokes on her mouthful of lobster.

“W-what?”

“Please tell me you’re not a virgin at the ripe old age of twenty-two.”

The nerve of the Supreme Bitch.

Yes, Mallory is still a virgin, and that’s no one’s business but her own. She decides to confront her godmother, expensive birthday gift be damned. She don’t even care that Michael is watching them bicker.

“If you’re paying settlements right, left, and center, maybe you shouldn’t say such vulgar things in front of your employees. What would HR think?”

Cordelia looks puzzled for a second, frozen with her wine glass an inch away from her lips. Then she begins to laugh and laugh uproariously, spilling a little wine on the tablecloth in the process. Mallory remembers that HR is run by a certain Wilhemina Venable, a ginger-headed harridan composed entirely of bad energy who’s known for sampling the merchandise.

“Mallory, are you really so dense?”

Clearly, she’s said something hilarious, but what? Cordelia can’t be so sadistic than she’ll mock someone for their plea to treat junior employees with a modicum of human decency. When Mallory continues to stare at her godmother uncomprehendingly, the older woman sighs and puts down her wine glass.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed by vulgar things in front of Michael. He doesn’t mind.” She turns to look at the handsome man, who doesn’t contradict her. “In fact, one could say that Michael is engineered to listen to and dispense the filthiest vulgarities that your virgin brain could never come up with in a million years.”

She stops to survey her creation. _Of course you feel objectified, honeybuns_ , she might as well say. _You’re an object._ _That’s the whole point._

“You don’t know the half of it, Mal.” Cordelia sounds angry now. “Dr. Mead, Michael’s main programmer, spoiled him rotten during the month that I was away.”

“Away” is her euphemism for an all-too-brief prison sentence, one she talks about like it was a jaunt to the spa.

“Cordelia. I don’t understand what’s going on.”

“It’s simple.” Michael comes to Mallory’s rescue, taking her hand across the table. The way that he rubs soothing circles into her palm makes her want to melt into his warmth, despite the nausea rising in her throat. “Happy Birthday, Mallory. It would be my greatest pleasure, no, my greatest _honor_ , if you would take me home and allow me to service you in any way that you desire. No limits. With me, everything is permitted.”

_Oh God Oh God Oh God_

Mallory nearly passes out from the shock. Where’s the nearest trashcan so she can puke her guts out?

_Fuck fuck fuck_

The man she thought was her blind date is nothing more than the newest model of sexbot off Cordelia’s assembly line.

Mallory’s dinner companions continue to stare at her expectantly, like they didn’t just ruin her birthday and quite possibly her entire life.

“You’re—you’re a _man_. I can’t go home with a man, Cordelia, as if we’re—”

“Gonna fuck? I don’t see why not.” The older woman sounds a little impatient. “A little sexual activity can do wonders for someone as tightly wound as you are, Mal, and Michael here is programmed to know literally every sexual technique in the book that isn’t prohibited by law. And a few that are.”

“I’m a nymphomaniac,” Michael says cheerily. “I literally crave your touch, Mallory. If you’ll have me.”

Mallory grimaces. She can’t believe that she’s actually considering the idea of taking this human-sized plaything home. The thought of taking him up on his offer makes her core throb even worse than before when he gripped her hand with such roughness.

“Absolutely not, Cordelia. I can’t accept it.” She coughed into her hand. “ _Him_. I can’t accept him.”

It breaks her heart to know that, underneath it all, Michael’s no different than the animatronic unicorn that shit rainbow-colored ice cream or the bionic crow that checkmated her every time. At best, he’s like the trusty prosthetic arm that does exactly what her brain tells it to do, having no agency of its own. And to think that, a few minutes before, she was taken for a fool by a false idol that set the butterflies in her stomach aflutter.

Michael looks totally broken by the rejection. His blonde curls shake as he puts his face in his hands. Mallory worries that he’ll start crying into his plate, alerting the surrounding diners to the melodrama playing out at their table.

“What now?” He asks Cordelia in a whisper.

“I don’t know, Michael,” she replies in an icy tone. “You can’t come back to California with me. I guess that we’ll have to dismantle you right here in London, barring a change of heart from Mallory.” She turns to her goddaughter. “What you fail to understand, Missy, is that there’s no android like Michael in the whole wide world, and there won’t be for another two decades. You think the bowl cuts at Kineros can design something like this? Or that circle jerk at Hawthorne, with their ‘cutting-edge’ Adam and Eve line? Ariel Augustus hasn’t built a robot since college, and you know where that fucker is right now, instead of in the lab? Climbing Mount Everest. Stepping over dead bodies. Or his Sherpas are.” She’s practically foaming at the mere thought of her competitors. “Just take Michael home, you don’t even have to fuck him if you don’t want to.”

She rolls her eyes, as if the idea of someone not fucking this Platonic ideal of a man is the most bizarre thing she’s ever heard. And yet it’s not lost on Mallory that she’s begging, desperate for her to take Michael off her hands.

“All you need to do is interact with him, Mallory. Help him to learn. Watch him grow. It doesn’t have to be forever, only until I sort out a few things back at the lab." The fingers on Mallory’s prosthetic arm flex with no warning. Is it glitch or a warning? Cordelia doesn’t notice. "Michael is singular. He has the potential to develop real sentience, not just the simulacrum we program into all our androids. Give him a chance, Mal. He might surprise you.”

Michael, the “singular” sexbot that very nearly passed the Turing Test being administered in her panties, is looking at Mallory like his artificial life depends on what she says next. Sapphire eyes bore straight into her soul, almost like there’s an answering soul behind them; only she knows there isn’t.

“Fine,” Mallory grits through her teeth. “But he sleeps on the couch.”

Cordelia flags down the waiter to ask for the bill; there’s suddenly a Ted Talk that she’s scheduled to give in San Diego next week. Michael is beaming at Mallory in a way she finds vaguely disturbing. The boy seems so grateful to be going home with her that she barely notices the shadow crossing his face for a moment, dimming the sun of his radiant smile.

“I’m so glad that you’ve changed your mind. I promise you won’t regret it.”

She will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was initially planning to upload the finished story in three parts but have decided to expand it to five. Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think.


	2. I, Sexbot

It’s a good thing that Mallory swiped that bottle of expensive wine off the table and stashed it in her backpack. She’ll need it after the day she just had.

Her newest possession isn’t doing anything to scare or annoy her, exactly. The Brave Little Toaster Boy is on his best behaviour. He’s wide-eyed and curious about his new surroundings as he follows his owner through the shimmering advertisement at the subway entrance.

This is the last thing she wants: a walking, talking sex toy imprinting on her like a duckling imprints on the mother duck, or a vaguely duck-shaped shoe.

It’s time to hop on the Tube and head down to Brixton where Mallory lives in a rented two-bedroom above a Ladbrokes that gets a little rowdy around football season (and it’s never _not_ football season).

Michael’s eyes widen as he passes through the gate. Holographic advertisements shimmer in the air all around him, tailored to the data-mined tastes of every passerby. Elbowing her way through the crowd, Mallory ends up pressed up against him on the escalator, her face pushed into his chest by the jostling commuters, and it’s strange; the soft smell of laundry wafting off his black clothing mixes with a pleasant musk that is entirely human and unmistakably male.

Androids are getting more lifelike every day now. No, they’re _better_ than lifelike. Mallory practically swoons into Michael’s shirt when the escalator reaches the bottom. Luckily, he’s there to catch her before she embarrasses herself too much.

“Oyster cards were phased out last year,” she tells him. “It's all retinal scans now.”

The crowd is still pushing the two of them towards the turnstiles, and Mallory pushes back. When did this city get so congested? Fifteen million people live here now, practically on top of each other. Certain social niceties that middle-aged millennials took for granted have gone the way of the jungle cats.

None of that seems to matter to Michael. He looks disoriented and confused but also exhilarated. It’s like he’d rather be here underground, stuck in the neon nightmare of rush hour, than anywhere else in the sunlit world.

Is he capable of feeling such a range of emotions? Mallory wonders.

“The retinal scan is going to be a problem,” she tells him, but it’s too late. The drone is already zeroing in on his right eye and sending a beam deep into the impossible blue. The biometric software doesn’t care about aesthetics, of course; it matters little how blue the eye is when it’s not logged in the system. Alarms blare to warn that the android is undocumented.

Two members of the transport police appear out of nowhere to detain Michael.

“What’s all this?” Mallory asks, affronted. She follows the officers into a small room behind mirrored glass.

“Your android must be registered if it’s travelling with you on public transit,” the older cop explains while the younger one types swipes something on a holographic interface. They talk about Michael as if he hasn’t got a name and only make eye contact with Mallory. She's about to use stronger language when she remembers that her student visa can be revoked at any time. 

Damn the arcane laws of the European Confederacy!

“Michael hasn’t had time to be registered,” she tells the officers. “He’s brand new. A prototype. Never been outside.”

The younger cop hovers a scanning device over the back of the android’s neck where most companies install microchips that allow identification by make and model.

Oops. Cordelia didn’t install one in the prototype she so happily unloaded on her goddaughter for a milestone birthday.

“Where did this come from?” The younger cop wants to know. “Either it’s fresh off the assembly line or you bought it off the dark web.”

“The dark web?” Michael sounds worried but also intrigued. These are the first words he’s spoken since they were detained, and he’s been totally calm until now. “Mallory, that sounds dangerous. I hope you’re not buying things off the dark web.”

 _Only the occasional mystery box_ , she’s tempted to joke but holds her tongue. It wouldn’t do to make light of the situation, not with the officers there. Her anger mounts as one cop pats down Michael's front and actually digs his fingers into the android’s hair to look for concealed weapons.

“Officers, we’ve done nothing wrong." Mallory decides on a gamble. "This android is an extremely valuable prototype entrusted to me by the CEO of a major American robotics company while she’s here on business. If something were to happen to Michael while he’s in your care, my boss would terminate all her contracts with your government immediately. You wouldn’t want a public scandal on your hands, would you?” 

She didn't even lie. Cordelia would be so furious if Michael were to go missing that she’d file a lawsuit against the transit system; the chain reaction this would set off would certainly get these two officers blacklisted from law enforcement.

Turns out that her instinct is right. Just hearing the words “CEO,” “American,” and “business” all in the same sentence has the effect of draining the colour from the two men’s faces. Shifting uncomfortably, they let go off the android like he’s leaking plutonium waste. 

“Apologies, Ma’am, we didn’t realize who you were,” says the older one. “Next time, you should give us a call before you travel so that we can arrange a more private means of transportation for you and your intellectual property.”

“Thank you, officer. No harm done. Michael, let’s go.”

By the time she’s on the actual train, Mallory’s temples are pounding with the mother of all headaches. There’s a wine bottle in her bag that she’s dying to open and take a nice long swig from, but she can’t because she’s squeezed between a corporate type with a heavy briefcase digging into her side and a machine-man who’s holding her up like she’s a new-born deer that hasn’t quite gained command of its legs yet.

It gets even weirder, though, when the train comes to a sudden halt inside the tunnel; she’s thrown against Michael’s chest for the second time, and he, fearing that she’ll get thrown around when the train picks up speed, wraps his arms around her. To her enormous surprise, he proceeds to rest his chin on top of her head, content to stay like that until the train pulls into the station.

Anyone watching the scene would think that Michael was Mallory’s overly protective boyfriend. There’s nothing to give the game away except his supernatural beauty, which earns her a few envious glares. Granted, most people simply stare at them both, like come in a package deal.

“I’m able to stand on my own two feet, Michael,” Mallory mumbles a little breathlessly, her chest a little constricted in her present position. “The train’s slowing down. You can let go of me.”

He doesn’t respond; neither does he let go. If anything, he hugs Mallory tighter.

“Michael, I mean it. You’re hurting me. Let go!”

He finally complies, as if waking from a trance, and blinks in disbelief at his own two hands, as if they’re covered with invisible blood.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to.”

A statement like that should give Mallory pause. Is Michael fully in control of his actions, like he’s designed to be? If Cordelia followed all the safety protocols, Michael would be programmed with the Three Laws of Robotics, the second of which states that an android “must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.” But Mallory’s starting to suspect that this prototype is non-compliant; he reminds her of those battle models used in underground fight clubs that are either stripped of the Laws or never coded with them in the first place. Clearly, there’s something more behind the “mishap” in Cordelia’s lab, the one that launched a thousand lawsuits. Mallory intends to call her godmother at the earliest opportunity and get the full story. 

Right now, however, all she can do is stop and stare at the man who’s standing beside her and looking quite guilty. He clearly didn’t mean to make her afraid and uncomfortable. The android is crying, something that he shouldn’t be able to do, and it’s because of Mallory. Her late mother always said that she was careless with her toys as a child.

Ignoring the single tear glistening on his cheek, Mallory reaches into her bag for a handkerchief and raises it to Michael’s face, then stops, startled by the sudden flash of intensity in his eyes. The doors of the compartment open wide to let people off, and she realizes, nearly too late, that it’s her station.

It’s dark and chilly out in the street. Michael is so distracted by his new surroundings that Mallory has to grab his hand and pull him along. Brixton is gentrified as it gets nowadays; all seven of its housing estates have been converted into luxury condos, complete with floating walkways, rooftop gardens, and full-service gyms on virtually every floor. Mallory likes to think that there’s still a little old-world magic in the old farmer’s market on Station Road, but even that area is mostly corporate embassies and virtual sex shops now.

Her apartment is in a converted second-floor Victorian (or mock-Victorian; it's hard to tell the difference) that Cordelia might describe as “cosy” in an uncharacteristic fit of generosity. Then again, Mallory's godmother only has herself to blame for any deficiencies in her housing as it's her that's paying most of Mallory’s school expenses. That was the promise that her godmother had made after her parents’ fatal jaunt to Mars. 

It’s been a long day. Mallory plops her bag down on the floor and pulls out the wine. She didn’t finish her lobster and the fridge is nearly empty, but luckily there’s a large carton of barely touched take-out noodles from the night before. Popping that into the microwave, she arranges two plates and some cutlery on the kitchen table and invites Michael to sit.

“I’m starving.” Cordelia may have ruined both her day and her dinner, but she won’t let her spoil the evening with Michael, as unwanted as the android is. Mallory heaps greasy noodles onto his plate. She knows that he can eat even if he doesn’t have to.

“You’re not getting any wine, though,” she tells him. That would be a waste of good intoxicant.

Michael doesn’t seem to mind that he’s not getting wine. He looks happy enough just being there with Mallory, sitting at her modest little table on a 3D-printed chair that she downloaded from somewhere. He's mirroring her actions as she twirls noodles around her fork like it's a dish from one of the five-star establishments that Cordelia liked to frequent.

Mallory's heart beats irregularly a couple times as she contemplates Michael's nature and probable fate. Still, the android's sad predicament doesn’t prevent her from admiring him. She’s only human, after all. And it's her birthday.

It’s the eyes; Michael has eyes that are bluer than blue, an artificial hue designed not to mimic nature but improve upon it. The best point of comparison is an old advertisement she saw for the bioluminescent shoreline of the Maldives, a place preserved only in holo-memory.

Mallory wills her thoughts to stop as the familiar heat ignites in her core and spreads outward. Just thinking about the superhuman strength in that perfectly formed android body does her conscience no favours. Michael is off limits, no matter what Cordelia said. If he's development sentience as she's starting to suspect, then he’s an innocent caught up in a situation beyond his control.

If she’s not careful about where her eyes rest, her panties will be soaked right through before it’s time for dessert. (Dessert is a cherry Bakewell tart still in its plastic wrapping and shoved in the back of the fridge.)

Mallory's head is beginning to swim. Pouring a second glass of wine down her parched throat certainly doesn’t help the heat that’s simmering between her legs. Treacherous, her thighs part of their own accord now. She hopes that Michael doesn’t look under the table, then remembers that he doesn’t need to. After all, wasn't he designed to be intuitive to his partner’s desires and physiological state? He’s probably scanning her right now, in fact. What is he thinking?

“It looks like Dr Mead’s office in here,” Michael observes. “The colour scheme, I mean.”

“Who’s Dr. Mead?”

It’s the first time that Mallory has heard the words “colour scheme” applied to her flat. Most of her furniture, appliances, clothes, and various knickknacks are either hand-me-downs or salvages from someone’s trash. Cordelia’s generous with her gifts, but there are limits.

“She’s my Programmer. We’ve never been apart for more than a day. I really miss her.”

“That’s weird.” Androids don’t have personal attachments of any kind, let alone mother figures. Maybe the Supreme Bitch was right about this model being unique; maybe Michael _is_ capable of the full range of human emotions, if given enough time to develop them. “Tell me about her.”

“What do you want to know? She’s worked with me ever since I came online. Teaching me all kinds of things.”

“For example?”

“How to tie my shoes. How to use a knife and fork. How to chew and swallow food. What I’m doing now, basically.”

“What else did Dr. Mead teach you?”

“All kinds of things. How to behave in polite society so that I don’t say or do things that make people uncomfortable. How to decipher what a client truly wants by reading their posture, speech, hand gestures, and micro-expressions. How to read their state of arousal by body temperature, pupil size, skin texture, heart rate, smell—”

“Okay, I get it. No need to elaborate.”

 _Fuck._ She’s busted. He’s telling her as much.

“She taught me everything she knew all about art, culture, books, fashion, fine dining, that kind of thing. Even if she’s not too interested in those things, personally.” Michael’s eyes light up when he reminisces about this Mead person, who sounds like a truly kind woman.

“What does she look like?” A hint of jealousy creeps into Mallory’s voice. She hopes that Michael doesn’t detect it.

“She has dyed black hair and likes to wear dark clothes. She’s a Satanist.”

Wine sprays out of Mallory’s nose and her glass nearly drops from her hand. Michael watches but doesn’t interfere.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s her religion.”

 _A Satanist_.

“Like one of those atheist ones that turn Christianity on its head?”

“No, a real one.” If she didn’t know better, she’d say that Michael looks offended. “A true believer.”

Mallory didn’t realize that "real" Satanists existed outside of bad horror movies from the seventies and even worse documentaries from the nineties. Whatever it means, it doesn’t make Dr. Mead a bad person. Everyone’s got something that separates them from the common herd. And who knows with Cordelia? Devotion to the literal devil could be a detail that the CEO overlooked in the supposedly rigorous screening process at Herotica. More likely, it’s a valuable asset to have on one’s resume when applying to work there. 

“What does that entail exactly, worshipping Satan?”

“Oh, nothing bad, not like you’re thinking. No blood sacrifices.”

“That’s a relief.”

“She performs incantations over a goat head, that kind of thing. I’ve never seen her do it, though.”

“It sounds like she’s been good to you.”

“She has,” Michael is quick to reassure her. “So very good. But you’ve been good to me too, Mallory.” He puts down his fork and beckons her to look deeply into his eyes, as if he means to drown her there. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I’m not being nice, Michael. This is the bare minimum required for an unexpected guest in one's home. You shouldn’t overthink so much.”

But Michael’s not overthinking, or worried; he’s _moved_ to the point of tears. The waterworks are starting up again.

“You’ve been _so_ nice, Mallory. Much nicer than I deserve.”

When they’re finished with dinner, Michael stays in the kitchen to do the dishes while Mallory plunks herself down on the couch, wondering what the hell she’s going to do as she scans the holo listings for something mind-numbing to play in the background. The Great British Bake-Off, which is in its millionth season and totally sapped of any magic it once had, is her mental novocaine of the evening. Her mind goes blank as pressed the button that submerges her living room in the program, extending the simulation from wall to wall. All around, amateur bakers are running around their white tent, surrounded by the rolling hills of the English countryside. Seven are still competing for the ultimate privilege of baking for Queen Charlotte and her all-female harem.

 _Why the fuck are you passing out in the front of the holo-sim if there’s better entertainment to be had_ , asks an evil little voice in the back of her mind.

Paul Hollywood may be in his late nineties now and mostly composed of carbon fiber, but the Bake-Off judge is as spritely as ever. Mallory’s dark eyes narrow as his own lupine blues sparkle about a meter from her head; he appears to be looking right at her but he's really talking to a row of female contestants behind her; the bakers have made gingerbread people in the shape of their favorite dead celebrities and are ready for judgment.

“This is so boring!” Mallory says loudly enough so Michael can hear it from the kitchen. Then again, she could whisper and the android would probably hear.

Just as Hollywood is about to take a bite from a cookie shaped like Kim Kardashian, the holo simulation goes dead.

_What the fuck?_

Then every light in her place goes out. A quick glance out the window informs Mallory that it's not just her apartment; the whole block has gone dark. Streetlights, houses, virtual gambling dens, everything.

She didn’t hear him approach, but Michael’s standing very near her now, right where the simulated Paul Hollywood was a few moments before. His silhouette looks different in the dark. Gone is the uncertainty of before; this machine is a new man, and he's never had a doubt in his brief synthetic life.

“What don’t you like about me?”

It’s not a friendly question. It’s an interrogation. Mallory gapes at the android. This isn’t normal behaviour, not even for an android with more than one screw loose.

But she shouldn’t be all that surprised. Didn’t Cordelia tell her? Michael’s nothing like normal.

“Did you cut the power?”

He doesn’t reply. It’s clear that he’s tampered with the electrical grid and done so remotely, no less. Not for the first time that day, Mallory’s body floods with fear mixed with arousal.

He’s mad, she thinks. He’s defective. He’s dangerous.

“Restore the electricity, and then we can talk.”

“We talk now. Answer the question. Why don’t you want me?”

“Because I own you, Michael. At least, you're in my custody until Cordelia decides to take you back.”

Michael takes a few steps forward, careful not to startle Mallory into flight. There’s something odd about his posture now; his back is no longer perfectly straight like that of a ballet dancer but slightly bent. It's not a relaxed pose; he looks more like a predator ready to lunge, a cobra coiled for the kill.

There’s only so many steps back that Mallory can take before her back hits the wall. The room is pitch black. Then, a single light goes on over her desk.

Why just the one?

He doesn't need light to see. But she does and he wants her to see him better. Perfectly still, he examines Mallory like she’s a human specimen under some high-powered microscope.

Still, Mallory feels brave. Brave and foolish.

“Look, I don't know how things worked at Herotica and with the clients, but you’re out in the real world now. You’re free.”

“Free?” He’s standing mere inches away, forcing you to look up at him. “I don’t know how to be free. Cordelia gave me to _you_. Why don’t you want me?”

“It’s not about—”

She never gets to finish that sentence because Michael swoops down to kiss her like a man all out of words yet desperate to prove a point. His lips feel cool against her own—inhumanly cool, in fact—but it doesn't matter when her core is burning and her cunt watering at the mere proximity of…

…Of what? An assemblage of doll parts that feels and smells and looks exactly like the real thing? No, _better_ than a real man.

She shivers at the slight burr of stubble on his cheek as Michael grips her face and leans in for the second time. There’s nothing gentle about the way he insinuates his tongue into her mouth. Mallory is liquid on her feet as Michael captures her lower lip between his teeth, biting down harder than expected. She struggles to think of the Three Laws but can't remember a single one.

She touches her lip to collect a single droplet of blood. Michael stares at the blood on her finger but doesn't say sorry. He's done apologizing. He licks the finger clean without breaking eye contact. 

“Michael… are you supposed to be able to hurt me?”

Mallory’s voice is weak, almost broken, as she considers her position. It would appear that the Supreme Bitch has built something defective yet also something that works far better than a regular machine. Impossibly strong hands wrap her her throat and hold her up; impossibly deft fingers squeeze her jugular, but lightly, like it’s a hair trigger easily tripped. The point isn’t to choke the life out of Mallory; the point is to immobilize her so he can examine her eyes and take her pulse.

“Your heart is racing," Michael observes. "Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing is shallow. You want me as much as I want you, I can smell it on your—”

“Stop.”

This time he listens. Red fingermarks bloom on her skin where he lets go.

Shaken, Mallory bends down and takes a deep breath. If she’s being honest with herself, she’s not as terrified as she should be. Something about this feels like a performance, one tailored to her specific desires. If she’s performing a role of damsel in distress, then she might as well act the part.

“Michael, you’re scaring me again. Can we get all the lights back?”

The darkness leaves the flat slowly, not all at once. First, the neighbours get their electricity back. Then, all the lights come on in the apartment. Finally, an elderly Paul Hollywood is back in the holo-projection, shaking the hand of that week’s Star Baker as Queen Charlotte looks on approvingly from her mobile throne.

Michael still hasn't apologized for anything he's done that evening. Why would he? There's no shame or regret in his eyes, only a quiet sort of triumph.

He scans Mallory’s neck for signs of bruising but finds none, to his immense relief (or disappointment?). He needs to be patient. In no time at all, the human will be begging to be handled roughly. If he decorates her with marks, it will be at her own request.

He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut comes next. Thank you for reading!


	3. Halt and Catch Hands

“Are you angry?”

“No,” she answers honestly. Anger isn’t what she’s feeling right now. Then what?

Pity, for one. It’s hard not to sympathize with a creature at the mercy of human beings that must seem to him as frail and fleeting as butterflies.

Another thing she’s feeling is exhilaration. The fact of the matter is that someone finally, _finally_ handled Mallory exactly as roughly as she always dreamt of being handled, and she didn’t need to ask for it herself, at least not in words. The desire was implied and unspoken, communicated through the sensory data that the android has been collecting, analyzing, and storing in his memory bank since the moment they met, and maybe even before. Michael’s memory bank probably contains more information than her bio-brain could amass over a standard human lifetime, or ten such lifetimes.

She feels at a loss, like she’s come upon a dead end. What to do? She doesn’t discount the possibility that her companion is even more confused about things than herself.

“What do _you_ want, Michael?”

“Me?” He seems puzzled by the question. “I want you, Mallory. That’s it.”

“But how do you know that you want me?”

For all Mallory knows, Michael could want to commit unspeakable acts not with her but _to_ her. Insofar as androids dream of electric sheep, this one might be dreaming about breaking her fragile little human body in half and luxuriating in the screams that ensue. Whether those screams are of agony or ecstasy might not matter much to Cordelia’s most complex creation.

Mallory tries not to think about it in those terms.

“You’re programmed to want me. Before we do anything more, you should know that this makes me a little uncomfortable.”

“So what? Many people are ‘programmed’ to want you, biologically speaking. On the street, I counted twenty-seven different men and four women who were exhibiting various physiological signs of sexual interest, whether conscious or not.” Michael shrugs, his voice lower-pitched now; no sense in startling his human companion. “I’m really not that special for wanting you.”

“I…. what? You _are_ special, Michael, it’s just that I’m—”

“Afraid to ask for what you really want?”

Mallory collapses on the couch and buries her face into the pillow. There’s no banishing these thoughts anymore, foul and unworthy as they are. Michael must sense that her resolve is crumbling as lust takes the wheel. She turns her face away; he doesn’t need to see the sheen on her brow or her dilating pupils or, especially, her mouth going wide at the mental image of whatever flesh-ripping monstrosity Cordelia’s designers had elected to endow him with.

She’s tired of this. She’s tired of _him_. Who’s really in charge here? Time to try a different strategy.

“Untie my shoes,” she commands.

Michael watches in curiosity as Mallory dangles her Doc Marten-clad feet over the edge of the couch. He’s clearly at war with himself about what to do now. Should he follow her command or issue one of his own? Finally, after a long silence, he grabs her ankles and starts to undo the laces so slowly and sensuously that she’d swear her feet were an erogenous zone.

There are sighs in pleasure and relief as the boots slip off her feet.

“Socks too, please.”

Once he peels her socks away, the android caresses her soles with a feather-light touch and watches, open-mouthed, as she wiggles her toes. Mallory draws up her legs before he gets a chance to capture her feet again and flops onto her side so that the entire curve of her ass is exposed.

Great. This is so much worse than her feet.

“Now go away.”

Michael really gets up to go, but it’s clear from his demeanour that he’s only humouring her for the time being. He’s patient. He can wait an inhumanly long time, if requested. When she’s ready to come to her senses, he’ll be back to do exactly what Cordelia suggested at dinner: fuck the living daylights out of her dear goddaughter until she’s babbling in binary code.

“Michael?”

“Yes?”

He’s already at the front door.

It occurs to Mallory, and not for the first time that day, that the easier option would be to give him what he’s programmed to want.

She removes the pillow from her face. Why prolong the inevitable? It’s time to face the truth of her instincts, ethical conundrum be damned.

“I lied before.”

“About what?”

“What I wanted from you.”

Turning back from the door, he looks confused for a moment, unsure if she should approach or retreat. If Cordelia were here, she’d probably call it a conflict between opposing directives in his programming. She might even throw in a movie reference for good measure.

Mallory remembers an old movie in which a ship’s computer killed most of its human crew because it got tired of lying to them about their primary mission.

Who knows if Michael has a breaking point and where it might be? He doesn’t know it himself. Programmed to intuit his client’s every desire and then bring it to life, Michael’s never known what it’s like to disobey an internal directive or, indeed, to have desires of his own. Every major directive he’s ever experienced has been external, every decision made for him, every outcome determined in advance. A perfect storm churns away inside his synthetic brain, and the less Mallory knows about his inner turmoil, the better.

“What do you want?” He demands somewhat louder than intended. _What do you want?_ He’s really asking himself.

Mallory hesitates before answering. She swallows. He can read her every physiological response, probably down to the molecular level. Why is he making her say it?

“The answer should be obvious.”

Neither of them speaks for what feels like an eternity, though in reality it’s only a few seconds.

The longer the silence lasts, the more the balance of power shifts back in Michael’s favour. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

He’s standing absolutely still now, armed with a poker face that’s, well, robotic in its perfection. The paranoid android knows that he’s got her entangled in the web of her own unspoken desires. He’s simply too good at this; Mallory wonders if her godmother input the collected works of Marquis de Sade into his code. 

“What do you want me to do to you? Speak.”

 _Fine._ She’s not shy.

“Whatever you want,” Mallory replies, deciding to fling his own words back at him. Didn’t he tell her something like this at dinner under very different circumstances? “Everything is permitted. Nothing’s off limits.”

Michael’s upon her the second she gives the green light. There’s no time to discuss a safe word or even the very nature of the sexual encounter they’re about to have. Mallory is stunned by how fast he can move and how strong he really is when he hoists her over his shoulder like she weighs less than nothing and strides into the bedroom, practically kicking the door off its hinges in his haste. She bounces off the mattress when her body hits the sheets. Much to her embarrassment, Mallory’s legs splay to reveal floral-patterned undies marked with an unexpected wet spot over the largest daisy. If she knew that a birthday dinner with Cordelia would turn into sex with a being programmed for the purpose, she’d be wearing a silkier pair.

Oddly, Michael seems calmer once he’s thrown her down like a piece of meat. _Meatfucker_ , the word echoes in his mind; it sounds like an insult. Who placed it there? He’s certainly never thought that before.

He strips off his shirt and jacket, revealing a lightly toned body that practically gleams in the low light, and gets into the bed beside Mallory before asking permission to unbutton her dress.

“Are you sure? You seemed so hesitant before.”

“Very sure,” she replies in what she hopes is a seductive a tone while dangling her feet off the mattress and trying her best to slip out of her flowered panties in one fluid move. It doesn’t work; the way she squirms only draws attention to what’s between her legs.

Mallory tries to undo Michael’s belt buckle when the hardness pressing against her leg makes it all but impossible to ignore the “monster” in his pants. But he stops her before she can satisfy her curiosity about what exactly Cordelia installed down there.

The animalistic side of Michael that she’d glimpsed when he grabbed her throat after killing all the lights on the block seems to be caged for now, though just barely. The cold intensity in his eyes remains. Michael’s in such a hurry to reveal the body he’s already scanned many times over that he barely notices when a button pops off her dress and the cheap cotton tears in half before he gets to the hem.

Who cares if he ruins her clothes? Mallory can use her godmother’s money to buy more. In contrast, all the money in the world can’t buy her the experience that she’s about to have with a prototype never approved for manufacture, now that’s she finally decided that Michael’s not at all what they say.

“I believe you,” she whispers. 

He grins against her ear. “I know.”

Intoxicated by the force of his physical proximity, Mallory leans into the rough feel of his cheek as she runs her flesh-and-blood hand down his neck and along the visible cords of muscle beneath the skin. Does the skin feel any different? It’s not as if her cyborg arm is any less a part of her for being a prosthetic; the prosthetic is so well-designed, in fact, that it blends perfectly with the rest of her body, just as Michael appears perfectly human on the outside.

Shoulders now bare, Mallory shivers a little under the weight of his gaze. Soon, every delectable inch of her will be exposed to it, and though Michael wasn’t programmed with a sense of aesthetics, there’s no telling how he’ll handle the sight of her fully revealed, piece by delectable piece.

She puts a hand on his chest. There’s no mistake about it. Her submission has quickened the mechanical illusion that passes for a heartbeat inside his chest. Mallory shivers as Michael bends down to run his perfect nose down the side of her neck, inhaling her scent as if he’s memorizing its chemical formula (he probably is). She imagines the android short-circuiting in his rush to taste her skin as he retraces the same path with his tongue. He’s mesmerized by the soft swell of her chest as the same finger travels along the lacy edge of her otherwise plain cotton bra. Hesitant before removing the garment, he’s content to pull down one cup and then the other, freeing her hardening areolas to his curious gaze.

Is there anything about her that doesn’t make him incredibly curious? Mallory doubts it.

She stops putting up a show of resistance as she lets him take handfuls of her tits and knead them roughly, almost experimentally, then roll her nipples between his fingers until they pebble. He gasps at the change. Mallory’s a night-blooming flower unfurling before his eyes; it doesn’t matter if he knows everything about the organic processes involved; it still feels like a miracle of nature.

His mouth returns to her neck, alternating between nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there in a way that’s sure to raise some ugly bruises. She opens her mouth to protest, but the words die on her lips. What escapes instead is a needy moan that doesn’t even sound like her. _No marks_ , Mallory intended to say, but the truth is that she yearns to be marked by Michael, to pretend that she’s a little human slave kept around for amusement once machines take over the world.

_Oops. Where did that come from?_

While she’s never been afraid of artificial intelligence, she knows many people who are. Her society is dependent upon machines not only for entertainment but for its very survival, and yet it also fears and despises those machines, longing for a simpler life where reality is only as complex as what can be touched with the hand and commodified illusions haven’t conquered every inch of the visible world.

To Michael, Mallory’s not just another client to please. There’s something about her that brings out a part of him he didn’t know existed until now.

Maybe it’s her general attitude to life—the lack of respect she showed to her godmother in the restaurant, for example, or the way she bullshitted those transport cops on the verge of arrest.

Maybe it’s the kindness that she’s shown _him_ , despite all the warning signs telling her to run and never look back. Since they met, Michael has done all of the following: squeezed her a little too hard; kissed her without permission; bitten her lip and drawn blood; cut all the power in her neighbourhood; and put her in chokehold as an excuse to read her state of arousal. 

Maybe it’s Mallory’s frailty that he’s drawn to—the lightness of her bones, the rabbit-like quickness of her heart, and the infinite delicacy of her skin as he licks a stripe from her earlobe down her neck, tracing the path of the carotid artery pulsing beneath the flesh.

One strategic incision, he thinks, and Mallory, his fragile little human, becomes a fountain of blood.

Would he enjoy seeing her in that state? Would it feel like retribution? Is Michael a sadist? He wasn’t programmed to be. Or maybe he was, only in a roundabout way, accidentally, as a case of emergence.

 _Emergence_ has always been one of Dr. Mead’s favorite words. She used it to describe Michael and the new world that his artificial kind would build one day. Emergence of consciousness means that Michael is more than the sum of his parts. Who’s to say that a penchant for sadism couldn’t emerge like a resilient weed pushing through cracks in the concrete of his programmed personality?

It’s easy enough to explain. Being endowed with hyper-empathy means that Michael feels everything that his partner feels, and that he feels it most keenly, as any good sadist would.

Michael returns to her chest and divests her of the bra by literally ripping it off her chest. Another item that she’ll have to replace.

Mallory’s lucky that he hasn’t trashed her whole apartment, considering what a simple rejection did to the electrical grid.

Taking her left breast in hand, he takes an experimental lick, fingers digging into pliant flesh a bit too hard for comfort—but no one’s complaining. His tongue feels a little rough as it swirls around her nipple, or is that her imagination? As he takes her nipple deeper into his mouth, Mallory tangles her fingers in his golden curls to press him closer, like she wants him to consume her _more_. Once he’s thoroughly consumed her left tit, he moves to give the right one the same treatment, and she wonders just how sore she’ll be from all this rough handling in the morning.

Mallory tugs on Michael’s hair in a way that would hurt a human being; it’s only fair that he feel some of what she feels, even if the sensation is muted, perceived as raw data and then organized into a simulacrum of human experience.

The tug gets his attention alright, but not like she intended. Raising himself until he’s looking her in the eye, he wraps that now-familiar hand around her throat and applies pressure on her wind pipe, enjoying the flicker of fear that crosses her face like the good emergent sadist he is. 

“You’re moving too much,” he suddenly decides. “From now on, you don’t move unless I give you permission.”

Mallory stops to consider the situation. Cordelia’s sexbot is ordering _her_ around? It’s more likely than you think.

It thrills her to be addressed in this way, even if she suspects it’s not the result of a performance designed to give her pleasure but rather of some programming error, even a dangerous corruption.

Does he resent her freedom? Is that why he’s taking it away? Is Mallory in actual danger? She can’t answer any of these questions with any certainty and, frankly, she doesn’t care.

“No more games.”

Michael gets up from the bed and walks to her “intimates” drawer where he finds a few pairs of pantyhose that he proceeds to rip and tie around Mallory’s wrists and ankles so she’s secured to the bedposts. He hasn’t really planned this strategically because she’s still wearing her panties and the sad tatters of her bra and dress. No matter; the speed at which he tears what’s left of her clothing startles her into submission and serves as another reminder that Michael’s not human.

But he doesn’t throw her panties on the floor like he does the other garments. That would be a waste.

Instead, Michael looks at what’s left of them like he’s furious that they even exist, their sole purpose being to conceal her cunt from his gaze. He wads them up in his hand, but not before taking a long, indulgent sniff of the wet cotton.

There it is, that sweet, musky essence he’s been craving like the kind of drug he wouldn’t be able to metabolize ever since she sat across from him at the restaurant, believing him to be a real man.

 _A real man_.

If Michael does anything on this sorry excuse of a planet, it will be to convince Mallory that she doesn’t need “a real man.” He knows in some deep, hidden part of his artificial soul that this particular specimen, soon to be all-but-extinct, is always inferior to even the most rudimentary example of his kind designed with just enough holes and appendages for a mindless fuck. 

Michael is much more than that, of course. Dr. Mead so trusted in the inherent superiority of the prototype and its potential for achieving true sentience that she called him the “Chosen One.” It was no secret that the Satanist believed in the inevitability of AI replacing the human race as the planet’s apex predator. She even joked about her dear Michael leading the charge. 

Now. Where was he?

Panties in hand, he’s back atop Mallory’s bare form, taking in every microscopic section of her exposed skin and burning the images so deep into his core memory that she can practically smell the smoke rising off his integrated circuits.

The sensations are almost too much to bear.

Mallory’s breath-taking (not that he needs to take a breath). 

Mallory’s unique (even as one among billions of her disposable kind).

Mallory’s infuriating (and never more than when she resists her own desires).

Mallory deserves to be worshipped but also, and equally, deserves to be whipped. A conundrum.

Michael shakes his head to dispel another conflict of opposing directives. He distracts himself by stuffing the dirty panties into her open mouth. His prey isn’t shy about squirming in her restraints and biting down on the wet fabric. She’s so humiliated that she could die, but so turned on she could cum without touch. The smell of her own arousal invades her nostrils to amplify her shame and delight. Michael must be able to read every shade of emotion on her face because he cracks a smile for the first time since he’s bound her to the bed.

“At dinner, you said that you didn’t want to fuck me, and you kept saying that until I couldn’t stand to hear it anymore.”

A squeal of assent makes it through the wadded panties. He’s not wrong.

“Yet here you are, begging to be taken.”

Again, it’s hard to argue with his superior logic.

The glinting shards of ice that some villain designed to be Michael’s eyes are trained on hers; there is no humanity in his gaze as he tightens his grip on Mallory’s throat and enumerates her many sins.

_Liar._

_Hypocrite._

_Tease._

_Bore._

_Slut._

The way he pronounces these words makes them sound like virtues, even if she knows the last isn’t true. She’s a virgin, for fuck’s sake. How can she also be a slut?

His right hand snakes down between her spread legs to reach her sex, a fire that hasn’t stopped burning since dinnertime.

“What’s all this?” He asks rhetorically as his thumb and forefinger pry open her virginal folds.

There’s no denying that Mallory’s a puddle of need; the evidence is damning, and it’s leaking everywhere: onto her sheets, onto his hand… He collects her essence like some rare nectar and brings it up to his mouth for a taste. It must be delicious because he appears lost in a reverie for a moment, dreaming with his eyes half-closed.

An especially loud squeal jolts him from his dream, and his hand returns to its task down below. A single finger probes her still-intact entrance and, wonder of wonders, meets only a little resistance as it sinks in all the way up to the knuckle.

 _That’s odd_ , Mallory thinks. She’s never been touched way that before yet, in no time at all, she’s pliant like butter.

“How are you _this_ wet?” Michael looks at her in wonder, like her frail human body is one endless trick being played on him. “And Cordelia thinks you’re so fucking pure.”

Pumping one finger in and out of the entrance wins him a few quick shudders of pain, followed by the sweetest possible whimpers. He doesn't dare add more fingers, so he watches Mallory’s face as she unravels on the one, curving it in such a way that he’s hitting the right spot with every thrust. There’s a little blood on the fingers when he withdraws them to check. A breach has been made. A small one.

As if this weren’t enough, he releases her throat and brings his other hand down to her clit, which he pinches, _hard_ , when she tries to spit out her own panties.

“Does my obedient little human have something to say?” He wonders aloud. Not on his watch. His obedient little human will remain gagged and bound while he does _everything_ to her and then some.

The restraints feel a little tight around Mallory’s wrists and ankles. But if there’s any friction, it’s her own damn fault for moving so much. Michael doesn’t seem too concerned about any red marks that might bloom there in the morning when he starts rubbing her clit in quick circles, feeling her quiver as he switches up the speed and angle of approach.

_Of course he knows exactly where to touch her._

Not only does he have a mental map of every client’s body at his disposal, but he’s been paying especially close attention to Mallory’s since they met a few hours before.

How many different ways can he make her unravel and lose her mind? The number may be finite, but Michael doesn’t intend to stop until he’s discovered them all and each of their variations.

Finally, he’s ready to remove the gag and let her moan to her heart’s content.

“Michael… I’m close…”

He plays dumb.

“Close to what?”

Knot tightening in the pit of her stomach, she’s ready to explode into a million shards of pure pleasure as he works her open with one hand and shows her reddened clit no mercy with the other.

“Say it.”

“I’m about to cum,” she pants, barely coherent. “If you’ll allow it, of course…”

He smiles at the way she bucks and quivers in her restraints, on the verge of the most earth-shattering orgasm of her life.

“Go ahead, cum for me,” he finally gives her permission. And just in the nick of time, too, because she’s convulsing the moment he says it and looking deep into those unrelenting blues as her field of vision turns blinding white. 

When Mallory descends from the delirious height of her first other-administered orgasm— _sad,_ she thinks—Michael doesn’t let her have a break. Kissing down her body before she has a chance to react, he’s plunging his tongue between her folds and licking up all her juices before putting his hand back between her legs.

“Michael, it’s too much,” she whines in protest, but it’s no use. Her clit is tender and over-receptive to pleasure to the point of slight pain—and that’s exactly why his mouth is suddenly upon her, sucking the swollen nub into another round of orgasmic oblivion. 

It hurts, yes, but it also feels divine when Mallory achieves release a few seconds later, and more deeply and forcefully than the first time; the gush of liquid soaks Michael’s beaming face.

The shame of that smug look, she thinks, will live in her memory forever. And in his, too, in a whole other, more accurate way; the android must have recorded every millisecond of her orgasm and will be playing it back in the private movie theatre of his mind from now until they repeat the encounter.

And they _will_ repeat the encounter.

Belatedly, Mallory realizes that Michael could eat her seeping cunt for days without taking a single breath. His breathing is simulated, inessential—an ornamental function designed to put her at ease. He doesn’t need to come up for air.

But she’ll have to test that ability on another occasion because Michael is crawling up her body to seek her lips while his hands are busy undoing his own belt, which, along with his rumpled black pants and whatever he’s wearing between them and his bare skin, soon joins the unceremonious pile of clothes beside the bed.

“Stop smiling,” Mallory commands, forgetting her place in the grand design. That’s wrong, so he ignores it. To her infinite astonishment, Michael unties her wrists and ankles from the bedposts. Why he does this is unclear; it’s certainly not to make her more comfortable as he moves to impale her on one of those streamlined monstrosities she’s read about in Herotica’s brochures.

_Wait._

Mallory was right about that, at least—it _is_ a monster at an estimated eight-and-half inches in length. Purplish-red at the sweetly weeping tip, it's girthy too, a bewildering sight for sore eyes that she can’t believe is about to….

No, it’s too big! How in the name of all that is good and not fucked is she expected to accommodate _that_?

 _I hope you know what you’re doing, Cordelia_ , she whimpers under her breath as Michael aligns himself with her entrance and grips her neck (why always her neck?) to make sure that she’s exactly where he needs her to be.

If he wanted to, he could hack into Mallory’s cybernetic arm and make her grip her own neck, but there’s no need to reveal that particular skill set at this particular moment. Mallory doesn’t need to know that Cordelia left a backdoor in the software connecting the prosthetic to her brain as a matter of common practice. If questioned about it, the Supreme Bitch would cite safety concerns, a last resort in case the devices ever malfunction.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Michael whispers, watching Mallory’s face for any shade of discomfort. An implication lingers between them, unspoken: _I don’t want to hurt you in such a pedestrian manner._ “And this _will_ hurt, I’m afraid. It doesn't matter that—”

“I know.” There is no way around it, unless the android’s apparatus can leak a numbing spray in the spot where he breaches her. But then how would she experience the pleasure that is sure to follow the pain?

“I can make it vibrate.” It's a kind of consolation, though not a good one. Mallory laughs until the incredible stretch shuts her the hell up as it becomes her only reality.

To his credit, Michael’s moving slowly, infinitesimally even, conquering her a bit at a time, and praising her every step of the way. She's impossibly tight, she’s taking him so well...

If she’s bleeding from the second, bigger intrusion, no one can tell; the feeling of being over-full is so intoxicating that it banishes any pain to the sensory margins.

She’s not ready for what happens next, as Michael’s splits her apart in earnest, pistonning in and out like he’s about to start a nuclear reaction in her core. The apparatus is massive, and he’s impaling her hard; Mallory can feel every synthetic vein along his engorged shaft like it’s ergonomically designed for her and her alone.

After a few minutes of this brutal treatment, she feels her release approaching for the third time that evening. Michael holds her close as she rides out her orgasm but doesn’t follow her with one of his own; instead, after a brief respite to let her breathe a sigh of relief, he’s plunging back inside and fucking her at an even more unrelenting pace than before, totally unresponsive to the sharp fingernails that break the artificial skin on his back.

She’s drawn blood. He doesn’t care.

By the time she crests over her next orgasm, he’s spending himself alongside her. A literal fuck-machine, he’s got no refractive period to speak of. He could fuck her into tomorrow without stopping, or into next week, or into next month, if only she wanted it.

Mallory’s phone rings to spare her this additional bliss. She’s almost glad it’s Cordelia on the other line.

That is, until Michael answers it, pretending to be her.

“Hello?”

Like something out of _Terminator_ , the idiot imitates her voice perfectly, right down to the pitch and vocal inflections. He must have been recording her since she first spoke at dinner because he knows every nuance of her speech patterns. It's another reminder that Michael simply hasn’t been programmed with the Three Laws.

“Oh, Michael’s been exceptionally well-behaved so far,” he tells Cordelia, who believes she’s talking to Mallory. “He’s an excellent conversationalist. I really couldn’t be happier with your gift.”

 _Michael_ , she mouths silently, suppressing her first instinct to scream bloody murder. _Get off the phone. Now._

“Well… since you’re asking… This is a little awkward to admit,” he continues, grinning in anticipation of recounting her adventure to Cordelia. “I did what you said, and it was absolutely divine. Transcendent! An out-of-body experience. Michael is… well, I don’t have the words to describe Michael.”

The real Mallory rolls her eyes.

“I’ll get you back for that,” she threatens when he hangs up the phone after a few more minutes of gushing about his resplendent looks, scintillating personality, and godlike sexual prowess.

“Really? And how do you plan to do that?”

She has no idea. Michael has her feeling so good that she’s forgotten all about the warning signs.

Wilful disobedience of her commands.

The seemingly cavalier attitude towards her safety (if there _was_ any real danger in the first place).

The bizarre behavior following their first kiss.

The Satanist programmer she’s itching to hear more about.

“I think you’re ready for round two,” Michael declares as Mallory brushes a few unruly curls from his forehead. It’s a pointless gesture, as they'll be tangled mess in no time at all.

“Don’t you mean round six?”

She leaves Michael to go wash up in the bathroom. Hands gripping the sink to steady herself, she examines her freshly washed face in the mirror. The water runs and runs and yet nothing but the superficial gets clean. Cleanliness is next to godliness, allegedly; why, then, does she feel so filthy on the inside, in her fallen human soul, where it counts?

The heat of the water obscures her reflection, hiding the sin written on her face from her own strictest judge. Then something odd happens; the steam thins in a few places, as if an invisible hand's writing on the mirror from the other side.

She squints as the steam thins out some more, revealing a sequence of numbers. Ones and zeroes only. Binary code.

1010011010

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait! Writing smut has felt weird lately. Anyway, this story's not over yet.


End file.
